


A Baby in Disguise

by blakefancier



Series: Stevie series [2]
Category: Captain America (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakefancier/pseuds/blakefancier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how Howard meets Stevie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Baby in Disguise

**Author's Note:**

> I've been freaking carouseling these past few days, that is, skipping from story to story, never writing more than page before I can't go any further. It's annoying and I hate it and ugh! UGH! Anyway, this is the first story that allowed me to finish anything. Honestly, it's probably because I'm a little in love with teenage-girl!Steve. She's such a tomboy. I loe it.

There was something about Stevie Rogers that fascinated him. The first time he saw her, she was standing in front of the Diego Rivera exhibit, cargo pants low on her hips, wearing a plain white t-shirt—so tight it made his mouth water—her blonde hair cut short and slicked to the side like a boy. She didn't look sophisticated, she wasn’t expertly made up, she wasn't wearing Louboutins, but he still slid up next to her and stared at the mural.

"I prefer abstract expressionism," he said.

She did a slight double take, as if she wasn't used to people talking to her. "I… Excuse me?" 

He turned to her and smiled. "I said I prefer abstract expressionism."

"That's what thought you said." She blushed prettily and looked back at the exhibit. "I like expressionism, don't get me wrong but there's an honesty and a romanticism in Rivera's work that an abstract expressionist can't begin to capture."

"Honesty *and* romanticism*? Those two terms should never be in the same sentence." 

The young woman's face pinked slightly. "Oh, I see, you're one of those." 

"I’m sorry, one of *what,* exactly?" 

She rolled her eyes. "One of those people who think that love is some sort of scam that only fools fall for. I bet you're divorced."

"You've got me, I am." She let out a satisfied 'ha' and he crossed his arms over his chest. "So you know all about me, do you?"

"I've seen a lot of romantic comedies." She smiled when he laughed.

He held out his hand. "Howard."

"Stevie." She shook his hand; there were strange calluses on her palm. "And no, it's not short for Stephanie. My parents were Fleetwood Mac fans." 

"Ah." He tilted his head. "So what are you doing here in the middle of the day? No, wait, let me guess. You're an art major at NYU and you're doing research on a project for class."

Stevie's eyes widened and she froze.

"Am I wrong?" he asked.

Suddenly, she blinked and smiled. "No, no, you hit the nail on the head. What about you? Why are you here?"

He gently touched her arm. "You don't want to guess?" 

She blushed. "I couldn't possibly." 

"Why don't I tell you over lunch?" He was being stupid about this, he knew he was. Stevie looked about Tony's age—Jesus, he was old enough to be her dad. But, dammit, it was just lunch. It wasn't like he was asking her to marry him. 

"Okay, that sounds great."

He put a hand on the small of her back, eliciting another blush, and led her towards the café.

Once they had settled into their table and ordered lunch, Stevie looked at him. "So, why are you here?"

"Maybe I wanted to stop by and see the art," he said, sipping a glass of merlot.

"In a three piece suit? That's a bit fancy for every day art viewing." She fiddled with her napkin. "Come on, give." 

Howard sighed and braced himself. "I was talking to the curator about lending them my art collection."

"Your art collection," she said slowly, as if she misheard. "You have an art collection." 

"Of abstract art, yes." He took a deep breath. "I'm Howard Stark."

"The warmonger?" She blanched and covered her mouth. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that." 

He laughed. "They still call me that?"

Stevie turned bright red. "My mom is an old school environmentalist."

He winced. "So not my family's biggest fan?"

"No." Stevie bit her bottom lip. "But I'm not my mom." She reached over, laid her hand on his, and looked at him from under her eyelashes. His mouth went dry and he sipped some water. 

Thankfully, the waiter delivered their meals; otherwise he might have embarrassed himself. He watched, amused, as Stevie tucked into a big plate of pasta—she wasn't pretending to be dainty about it, either. "Hungry?" he asked.

Her cheeks pinked, but she shrugged. "I've got a high metabolism, plus, I box."

"You box?' He blinked. Okay, she wasn't a tiny, delicate looking girl, she looked like she worked out, but… "Really?"

She grinned at him. "It's fun."

"Getting hit is fun?"

Stevie rolled her eyes. "It's great exercise and it helps relieve stress. A lot of guys I get in the ring with underestimate me. They think that because I'm a girl that I'm a lightweight. They learn pretty quickly that I can hold my own. After I give 'em a shiner or two."

He blinked at her in shock, and then began to laugh.

*****

He asked her to dinner, but she declined. But when he invited her to view his art collection, she readily agreed.

*****

Stevie wore short denim cut-offs and a shirt so tight it was almost obscene. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was a tousled, golden, mess. Howard took a deep breath and forced himself to think about something, anything, but her long bare legs and the curve of her breasts. Fuck, he wanted to pull down those shorts and mouth her through her panties until she came.

He smiled at her. "Glad you could make it." 

She smiled back and gave a half shrug. "It's not every day someone invites me to see their Jackson Pollocks." 

"Appalling," he said, his erection finally wilting enough that he could stand.

Her gaze swept over him and she blushed. "I feel a little underdressed. Do you always wear suits?"

"It's what I'm most comfortable wearing. And you look wonderful." Howard walked over to her and offered her his arm.

She laughed softly and took it. "What a gentleman." 

He felt his face heat at that and he grimaced. "Not so much." 

"Let me be the judge of that." Stevie lowered her lashes coyly. "Now show me your art." 

*****

He couldn't stop staring at her; when she saw his collection, her eyes brightened and her mouth curled in delight. She rocked on the balls of her feet, taking in every piece with an almost obsessive appreciation.

"You really love this, don't you?" he asked. 

Stevie turned to look at him. "Yeah, of course. I can only hope I'm half as good someday. Don't you love this? All of this." She gestured to the art on his walls.

He shrugged. "I appreciate them. That's not quite the same thing, though." 

"No, not quite." She touched his arm and gave a quizzical frown. "What do you love, then?"

"Math." She laughed and he let out a little huff of amusement. "No, I'm serious. I love math and… and building things. Not just weapons, but anything, everything. I built the engine for my airplane. I once built a replica of the Death Star."

"I knew you were a geek," she said, teasingly, and stepped closer. "It's all the same, you know. It's just making something out of raw materials. You use metal and math, I use paints and canvas."

"I bet you say that to all the geeks." 

"Just the ones I like." And then she… she punched him gently, affectionately, on the arm.

Howard let out a startled laugh and she looked slightly appalled by her actions. "No," he said, "it's… Let me show you how…." He cupped her face and kissed her, gently. When he pulled back, her eyes were wide, startled. He opened his mouth to apologize, when she surged forward, mouth hard against his, her arms wrapping around his neck. He groaned and nipped her bottom lip. "Bedroom?"

"Yeah," she whispered. "Oh, yeah." 

*****

"I should go," she said, scrambling out of bed, a sheet wrapped around her body, to hunt for her clothes.

"You don't want to stay for dinner?" He sat up and watched her pull on her panties.

"No, no I should… I've got things to do. " She wiggled into her shorts then slipped into her shirt.

"Are you alright," he asked.

"I'm fine." It was obvious that she wasn't, not in the least. 

He climbed out of bed and she yelped, tossing the sheet at him. That was when he realized that... fuck! "You were a virgin." She blushed bright red and he felt like an utter asshole. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was afraid you'd stop." She crossed her arms over her chest.

"I wouldn’t have stopped, but I might have lingered a bit longer, given you a couple more orgasms."

Her ears turned red, too, this time. "There were plenty of those." She paused for a moment, then continued, "Thank you."

Howard bit back a laugh. "You don't have to rush off. We could cuddle." 

Stevie narrowed her eyes and threw a sock at him. "Don't patronize me."

"Hey!" He laughed, then, because she was absolutely, amazingly strange. "I *like* cuddling. I also like dinner. So if you'd rather eat, we could do that."

"You're not just asking me to stay because you… you know." 

"Took your precious gift?"

Stevie looked horrified for a moment, so he smirked at her. She let out a little huff, her face softening into something that wasn't quite amusement. "For that, I want dessert." 

"Anything you want, babe," he said, grabbing his underwear. "And just for the record, that's not why I asked you to stay. Despite what the tabloids say, I'm not a manwhore. I like you, Stevie. I want to see where this goes." 

Stevie bit her lip and looked thoughtful. "Me, too."

"Great, we're on the same page. Now what do you like on your pizza?"


End file.
